


It's Beginning to Look a Lot like A Christmas Carol

by Engineer104, hailqiqi, Rueitae



Series: Farming Christmas Crackers [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (Past) Allurance, A Christmas Carol AU, Canon Compliant, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Gen, Moving On, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-09-27 02:53:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17153939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Engineer104/pseuds/Engineer104, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailqiqi/pseuds/hailqiqi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rueitae/pseuds/Rueitae
Summary: Lance is no Scrooge, but when he gives up a family vacation and declines an invitation to his friends' holiday gathering, he finds himself the target of a ghostly intervention.It's a tale as old as time...or as old as the nineteenth century, and if Lance doesn't learn his lesson, he just might be forgotten.





	1. Lotor Doesn't Really Do Reggae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help comes from unlikely places. Even when it's not all that helpful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea just...happened. And somehow I (hail) managed to talk Reem and Rue into joining me in this madness, and being the wonderful people they are, we've all spent the weekend leading up to Christmas working away at this fic like crazy. (Reem deserves all the love for coming up with the title, summary, and doing the bulk of the editing!)
> 
> 1&2 are [HailQiqi](https://hailqiqi.tumblr.com), 3 is [Rueitai](https://rueitai.tumblr.com), 4&5 are by [Engineer104](https://sp4c3-0ddity.tumblr.com), and then the 6th is a little bonus from Rue...
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The smell of smoke jolts Lance out of bed and he’s taking the old stairs three at a time before he’s even fully awake, his mind full of an incessant screeching of nothing but “OLD HOUSE! WOOD! FIRE! BAD!”

Once he hits the ground floor he can see the orange light spilling from the parlour, so he arms himself with a fire extinguisher from under-the-stairs and goes charging in, ready to defend his family home from the flames if for nothing but that he would be so, so quiznaking _dead_ if Mami came home from vacation to find out the house had burned down on Christmas Eve.

Zarkon had nothing on his Mami when she’s on the warpath.

The fire extinguisher lands on the floor with a resounding thud the moment he steps across the threshold.

“Pick that up, would you? I can’t abide such racket.”

Lance gapes.

“ _Lotor_?!”

“Who were you expecting?” Lotor leans casually on the mantelpiece above the fire, sifting through his father’s box of cigars and withdrawing his selection before casually glancing over his shoulder. “Oh, and don’t try anything...funny. I’m only corporeal for as long as I want to be.”

_Does that mean he’s a ghost…?_

Something more pressing grabs his attention, however, and he can’t stop himself from blurting out, “Are you wearing a _dressing gown_?”

Lotor blinks at him. “Is this not the appropriate costume for these types of activities?”

“For _what_ type of activities?!”

“These human things” he replies, then stalks up to Lance until he’s standing less than a foot away, towering over him and waving the cigar in his face. “Let’s cut the small talk. I died alone because I spent my life pushing away most of the people I loved and gave up on the things I really wanted to do.”

Lance will never admit it, but he’s proud that he stood his ground and is glaring up at Lotor with a fierceness worth of a Paladin. “You mean genocide and manipulating people? Because I don’t think you ever really gave up on that.”

“Ugh, look, you…” Lotor presses a hand to his head in exasperation. Lance doesn’t even bother to hide his smirk. “No. Anyway. What I’ve been sent to say, is that you need to change, _Lance_ , or you’ll end up like me.”

“I’ll never be like—”

A log pops on the fire, cutting off the rest of Lance’s retort, and suddenly purple smoke is pouring out of the fireplace at an alarming rate. Lance’s eyes widen and he takes a step back, frantically scanning the room and edging towards the door. Lotor, however, is unconcerned, and watches Lance’s attempts to shield his eyes with an almost amused expression.

“Uh… Shouldn’t you do something about that?” Lance wheezes, gesturing towards the fireplace with one hand while tugging the collar of his t-shirt over his nose with the other. The smoke is rapidly filling the room, blurring his vision and bringing tears to his eyes. There’s a window to the right — if he can just get it open…

Lotor is nothing more than a shadow in the smoke when he replies, “Why should I? I’m already dead.”

 


	2. When You're Missing What Makes Your Yee Haw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out of the smoke, and into the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _this was meant to be crack_ ~~I'm sorry~~

A sudden gust of wind clears the smoke as quickly as it came. Lance rubs his watering eyes, his hacking coughs fading into harsh wheezing as he desperately tries to reorient himself.

It takes him a few moments to realise he's back in his bedroom.

"What the quiznak...?"

Is this...? Yes. The mattress is firm beneath him, the blanket soft against his fingers, the floor cool against his bare feet. The blinds clack against the window frame in the winter breeze, and the light of the full moon ebbs and flows with their movement. He tugs his t-shirt back down and smooths it out on his shoulders, taking a deep breath and letting the quiet of the night wash over him.

This is his bedroom, in his family home, in Cuba. Lotor was a dream. Probably conjured up by everyone's constant _concern_ ; Rachel always says if you think about something enough during the day, you'll dream about it at night. The joys of PTSD had long ago taught Lance that her wisdom holds far too true.

He glances at the window, frowning. _Did I open that?_ Well, nobody else was home, so unless one of the farmhands snuck into his room to open it...then he must have. It can't stay open all night, though, or the blinds will probably break, so he gets up to close it, heaving the stiff wooden frame shut with a _thump_.

He's almost back to his bed when he hears the sharp _crack_ of glass shattering. Pain jolts up his right foot, and when he looks down his heart sinks.

"Oh, no," he mutters, leaning down to retrieve the picture of him and Allura's date. "Oh, _no_. No!"

There's blood marring the surface of the photograph -- his _one_ photograph of him and Allura that's absolutely irreplaceable -- and he shakes the glass off before using his t-shirt to gently wipe its surface. "How did you even _get_ there?!"

Thankfully, the blood comes away easily, and Lance heaves a sigh of relief at the sight of the photograph miraculously undamaged and unblemished. He leans forward, carefully placing the photograph in the middle of his bed, before turning his attention to his foot.

The cuts aren't deep, but they definitely need some attention before he sorts out the floor, so he brushes the shards away before heading off in search of the first aid kit.

Meemaw said that Pipo's ghost would be sad at the thought of Lance spending Christmas Eve alone. As Lance hops down the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister to keep him balanced, he rather thinks that Pipo would be laughing at him.

It isn't until he moves to fetch the broom, walking gingerly on his freshly-bandaged foot, that he notices the glow seeping under the door of the barn.

"For crying out..."

He's already halfway across the grass when he realises it was dark when he shut his window.

Years of training kick in automatically and he drops to the ground in a squat, thankful he grabbed his dark blue jacket instead of the white one. Shiro's voice echoes in his mind: _Step One: Observe your surroundings, make a plan. Never go in blind if you can help it._

Lance stills his breathing and waits.

The farm is quiet. The December gusts are fierce but not as cold as he remembers the winter desert breezes to be. The full moon bathes the night in a silver glow, combining with the warm light spilling from the house and barn and the ethereal sparkle of the juniberry field beyond to make him feel like he's caught on a movie scene.

Scenes from _Children of the Corn_ flash through his head and he shakes them off, grateful that his Pipo never planted that particular crop. There's no noise from the barn at any rate. Maybe he was so wound up from the Lotor dream that he just hadn't noticed the lights before. Or maybe a farmhand heard something, checked on the animals and left them on.

Or maybe the animals are all dead. Either way, he has to check.

He cautiously makes his way to the barn, edging the door open and breathing a sigh of relief when Kaltenecker’s familiar snuffling greets his ears. All is well.

When he slides the door open all the way, though, he sees a strange man leaning against the cow’s stall, smiling softly as she sleepily munches on the apple slices in his open hand.

Lance blinks. “ _¿Hola? ¿Are you here with somebody?”_

Just because he’s new doesn’t mean he’s bad news. Maybe he’s staying with one of the farmhands for the holiday. Maybe he’s—

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak that one. I was told y’all speak English, though?” the man asks politely with a strong Southern accent, straightening up. There’s something familiar about the soft smile tugging on his lips, but Lance’s heart sinks.

A stranger — and a foreigner — this far out can’t be good news. He wishes he had his bayard on him.

The man doesn’t seem to notice the tension, blue eyes crinkling warmly as he holds out a hand. “Lance, right? I’ve got some things to show you.”

Lance stares at him. “I...you...what?”

“C’mon, son, did nobody ever teach you it’s polite to shake hands when you meet someone?”

Something about his tone has Lance moving to obey before he can think.

The world flashes the instant their hands touch, and suddenly he’s standing in the field behind the barn, warm winter sun beating down on his head. Lance yelps and drops the man’s hand, spinning on his heel to find out where he is and _what the quiznak just happened_.

It doesn’t take him long to realise that he’s home, but he’s not. The paint is peeling on the barn, the juniberry field is gone, and the farmhands’ dormitories beyond the house are half the size. The main house is painted a pale yellow, the colour fresh and bright, and raucous laughter spills from its open windows.

His heart seizes at the sight of the cars in the driveway, at the sound of voices talking and laughing. It’s so, so different to the quiet solitude of the last few days, and his heart _aches_ to be in there.

Except that’s probably not his family.

“Where did you bring me? Another reality?” he asks, his gaze fixed on the house.

“We’re not real here, so I guess you couldn’t call it a reality.” Before Lance can ask what he means, the man gestures towards the barn. Two children come running into view: a girl with choppy hair, a dirty red dress and a wide, gap-toothed smile who could only be this reality’s version of Rachel, followed by a boy with messy locks, a ripped button-up shirt and a loud yell and—

 _Oh_.

Lance swallows. “That’s me, isn’t it?” He knows the answer already. He remembers the scolding he got from Mami for ruining that shirt vividly (though not how he did it), and the model of the _Calypso_ in the boy’s hand sat on his own bookshelf all the way up until he returned from the war. The man’s words echo in his head: _I guess you couldn’t call it another reality_. His head is spinning. “You brought me to the past.”

The man nods silently, but Lance’s gaze is transfixed on the two children — _himself and his twin_ , he reminds himself — running straight for him. There’s no point in moving; movies have taught him that they’ll simply run straight through him and they do, appearing on the other side only to flop onto their backs and stare up at the sky.

“ _¡I’m gonna fly a real one of these when I’m older!_ ” his younger self declares, flourishing the rocket around in the air and making zooming noises.

Younger Rachel scoffs. “ _¡You can’t even hand your homework in on time!”_

“ _¡That’s different! ¿Anyway, did you know that this thing went all the way to Jupiter? And—”_

_“Yeah, yeah, and it took them three years to get there.”_

“You were a cute kid,” the man says, nudging him back to reality — or whatever reality is for him, now, since it apparently involves standing in fields at night that’s really in the day and quiznak, now his head his hurting. “What were you saying?”

The children are still lying on the ground, tussling over the _Calypso_ and boasting about who’s going to fly further. Lance watches them fondly, his heart aching for a simpler time, and a smile steals across his face as he answers, “I’m telling her how I’m going to be the greatest pilot in the world, and she’s telling me that she’ll be better.”

The man laughs. “Oh, that sounds like my son.”

“Yeah?” Rachel has won the tussle and is running across the grass, his younger self in hot (and noisy!) pursuit.

“Yep. Always staring at the stars, talking ‘bout how one day he was gonna see them up close. It probably helped that we lived in the desert, sure—“

Suddenly it clicks. Lance whips around to stare at him and— yeah, he can see it. The smile, the eyes, the ears; the way he tilts his head… “You’re Keith’s dad, aren’t you?”

“Ah?” the man — _Keith’s dad_ — answers, thrown off-kilter by the interruption. “Oh, yes. Yes, I am.” He pauses, then reaches out and places a hand on Lance’s shoulder. “Thank you for supporting him, by the way. I know it means a lot to him.”

 _There were plenty of times when I didn’t_ , he wants to say, but instead he says, “Yeah. Of course. He was a great leader.”

Keith’s dad watches him quietly for a moment, then holds his hand out. “Come on, son. Let’s go.”

Lance takes one last look at himself and Rachel before placing his hand in his.

The world flashes again and now it’s night-time, but instead of the farm, rooftops spread out in all directions, ending abruptly at a line of black nothingness that he knows instinctively is the desert. Keith’s dad hums approvingly.

“We used to live around here, out that way, I think.”

They’re back in Arizona, on the roof of the house where Lance spent the latter half of his childhood. A few feet down the slope, what looks like a ten-year-old Lance and Hunk lie on their backs on the roof, Santa hats on their heads as they gaze at the few stars that manage to peek through the too-bright sky.

“...You can see them _way_ better from the Garrison, remember how they looked at the camp?” younger Hunk is saying, one arm pointing vaguely at the stars. “It’s because of all the light pollution, the light reflects off the sky and makes them hard to see. We can’t even make out any constellations.”

“Yeah,” his younger self breathes, but his tone is awe-struck, and Lance knows that he’s remembering the first time he really _saw_ the Milky Way. The Garrison camp leaders had taken them out to sleep in the desert, lying down on tarps without tents, and…

A shiver runs up his spine at the memory.

Keith’s dad nudges his arm, holding his palm out for Lance, and Lance takes it.

The change of scene is softer this time, and when he gets his bearings Lance realises they’re standing outside the doors to the barracks at the Garrison. Most of the buildings on Post are dark — it must be later, far later in the evening than the last memory — but when he glances up the night sky is cloudy.

When he looks back down he realises that Keith’s dad is already walking straight through the doors, and hurries to follow him. “Where are we going?”

“You really liked space, huh?” Keith’s dad asks instead, glancing at him with a rueful smile. “Those camps are pretty hard to get into. I always wanted to send Keith to one.”

“Uh…” Lance looks around the familiar halls, decked out with tinsel for the holidays, and realises he’s not going to get an answer. “Yeah. Yeah, I was always gonna be a fighter pilot, fly some of the big missions out in the solar system. Spent the whole summer before camp applications opened with my nose in a book like a nerd, trying to make sure I’d get in.”

“Must have been pretty hard, giving up your summer vacation like that,” he comments as he turns down a vaguely familiar hallway.

“It was totally worth it though,” Lance says. “Look, where are we—”

Keith’s dad steps through a door and disappears. Lance curses and follows after.

Harsh sobs echo off the walls in the dim room, and as his eyes adjust Lance can make out the Kerberos Mission Poster on the wall and the piles of appropriated tech on all the surfaces. _Pidge’s room_.

And that means the one crying is…

“Pidge,” he breathes, his heart breaking at the sight of the small figure face down on the bed, her entire frame shaking with the force of her sobs. Somewhere at the back of his mind he’d always been somewhat aware that this scenario must have played out at some point, but seeing it — actually _seeing_ it — hurt in a way he couldn’t explain.

( _I know what you’re going through_ , she’d said.)

“Poor girl,” Keith’s dad comments, following it up with a sympathetic sigh. “Loss is hard. I knew Krolia wasn’t dead, but I had nights like these myself.”

“What?” Lance snaps his gaze to him, a tight ball in his chest.

(And then Lance had hung up on her and avoided her calls, and answered her text apologising and inviting him to Christmas with a one-line excuse about tending the juniberry field.)

He smiles and claps him on the shoulder. “We all do, son. It’s part of being human. Come on.” When Lances makes no motion to follow, he tugs insistently on his upper arm. “You can’t do anything for her. It’s just a memory.”

“Just a memory,” he murmurs, turning his back on Pidge and her tears (and it feels _wrong_ , oh so _wrong_ ) and following Keith’s dad back through the door and down the hall. Pidge’s sobs still echo in his ears when he’s much too far to hear them, and he only just notices in time when Keith’s dad stops outside the library.

“And there you are,” he says, a teasing smirk on his lips, “with your head in a book like a nerd.”

He glances inside the small barracks library and sees himself, sitting at the table with a Santa hat on his head, a thick textbook spread out in front of him.

Lance remembers this Christmas. Veronica was deployed and his family had gone back to Cuba for the holiday. Lance had been supposed to go too, but he stayed back to study more. Hunk was in Samoa with his family, so he’d been all alone on Christmas Eve. It had sucked, but his theory had improved by ten points and, well…that was nothing to sneer at.

He turns at the sound of soft footsteps in time to spot Pidge approaching, her eyes eerily dry, until she pauses in the library’s doorway. The Lance in the library hasn’t noticed his audience, engrossed in his studies as he is. Pidge watches for a moment, her expression unreadable, before turning on her heel and quickly walking back the way she had come, disappearing around the corner within seconds.

When Lance turns back around, Keith’s dad is watching him pensively. “Do you remember what happens next?”

Lance nods. “She comes back with cocoa, and helps him — me — with those equations.”

“Is that so?” A smile tugs on his lips. “Let’s wait, then.”

The kitchen isn’t far, thankfully, and soon Pidge is walking slowly towards them, a mug of hot cocoa held carefully in each hand. She walks straight through them and hands a mug to his surprised counterpart, who flashes her a grateful smile and pulls out the chair beside him for her. As Pidge sits down she turns away, towards the door, and Lance’s eyes widen when he realises she’s hiding a blush.

Keith’s dad chuckles. “Looks like she’s sweet on you.” He nudges his arm before Lance can even formulate a reply, leading them closer to where the two teens sit talking in hushed voices. “Come on. Let’s see what you were saying.”

It takes a moment for his brain to catch up, and when it does he scoffs, “Yeah, right. Sure.”

(But feelings long pushed aside gurgle sleepily in his gut, and he can’t help but wonder.)

At the table, Pidge is looking at his younger self with an expression of cool disbelief over the rim of her mug, a wrinkle marring the smooth skin of her forehead as she says, “— _really_ wanna be a pilot, huh?”

“You don’t understand, Pidge,” teenage Lance says, putting his pencil down with a clack and turning his body to face her. “Flying is like...man, it’s the best feeling in the world. The whole world is laid out beneath you and the way your breath stops when you swoop is just…” he trails off, a dreamy expression on his face, and for the first time in years Lance can feel that breathlessness, that thrill of wonder running down his spine as the universe dips and rolls around him. “Anyway,” he continues, and the spell is broken, “the number of pilots who get to do the _good_ missions is dependent on funding, and that’s always changing, so if I want to make sure I _stay_ on track to get to space I’ve got to be at least in the middle of the pack.”

“And right now you’re dead last,” Pidge says quietly.

 _Mostly because our sim scores were terrible_ , Lance thinks.

His younger self definitely knew it, but all he does is shrug and say, “Yep. And I mean, it’s easier to cram the theory than the practical stuff so…”

Pidge bites her lip, her features mired in what he now (with years of close friendship behind him) recognises as guilt, then leans across the textbook and grabs the pencil. “Here, let me help you…”

Rough fingers close around his and suddenly the scene shifts. Loud music blares from unseen speakers and the change is so jarring Lance is completely disoriented for a few moments, but then his senses come back to him together with a fresh wave of misery.

This is the Castle. His first Christmas Eve on the Castle, to be exact — when Hunk made so much food they were eating leftovers for weeks, they all went on a major decorating binge, and _Keith_ of all people rigged the Castle tannoy to play Christmas music on repeat until Allura bodily threatened him to turn it off. _Silver Bells_ is rebounding off the walls and everything is bathed in that pale blue glow and Lance just wants to lean out and press his face to the walls because it feels like _home_.

But no more than a few feet to the left is the door to his old room, wide open as his younger self leans against it in his old blue dressing gown and Pidge bobs on the soles of her feet nervously in front of him, a small box held out. The man — boy, really — in the doorway accepts it with a smile ( _I’m really sorry Pidge, I didn’t think to get anyone anything_ , he remembers saying) and Pidge rubs the back of her neck, before they seem to bid each other goodnight and the door closes.

Pidge takes two steps away (towards them) before suddenly slamming her back against the wall, burying her face in her hands with a muffled, “Oh, quiznak!”

All Lance can do is stare, his whole body frozen as realisation creeps over him.

A low chuckle sounds from beside him.

“Still think she wasn’t sweet on you?”

Pidge has her head tilted back now, her features bright red but the picture of distress as she obviously tries to calm her breathing.

Lance frowns. “Why are you showing me this?”

“It’s on the schedule,” he replies with a shrug, moving to take Lance’s hand again.

Lance grabs his hand away, taking a few quick steps back towards Pidge, out of Keith’s dad’s range. “Nu-uh. You need to tell me what’s going on, and you need to tell me _now_.”

“Really.” He deadpans, one eyebrow raised in an expression that’s so _Keith_ it’s disconcerting. He sighs. “I doubt there’s any harm in it. This is an intervention.”

“An _intervention_?”

“Sure. Have you ever seen _A Christmas Carol_?”

His mind freezes. “You mean the Dickens book?”

“Uh…” Keith’s dad trails off, blinking. “No, the movie. With the little green man? I think they made a version with the grouchy duck, too.”

“Hold on a second, you mean _A Muppet Christmas Carol_?!” He can’t help the way his voice pitches up, or the wave of indignation that strikes him. “You and _Lotor_ are ruining my Christmas based on a _Muppets movie_?!”

“I think she thought she was _saving_ your Christmas, but that’s the gist of it. Are you done?”

Lance eyes his proffered hand warily, then takes a step back. The music changes to _All I Want for Christmas_. “No. No. Not until you tell me what exactly you’re _intervening_ in. Why are you showing me these things?”

The grey eyes soften, and Keith’s dad takes a step back, looking him over gently before replying, “I didn’t get to pick them, but it looks like they think you’re in need of a reminder about the things you loved. And judging from what we just saw, I think the things you loved were space, flying, and—” Pidge walks through Lance right on cue, heading back to her room— “her.”

He watches her disappear around the corner, an odd, insistent pain tugging at his heart. When she’s gone he turns his gaze back to Keith’s dad and asks quietly, “And how will that help me? None of this is _now_. Life is — _I’m_ different, now.”

“I’ve no idea, son,” he answers, offering his hand again. “There’s one left. Maybe you can tell me.”

A flash of blue, this time, and now they’re standing in the paladin lounge, in the middle of their last Christmas aboard before they had to sacrifice the ship. They’re all there, Keith in his Blade uniform, lounging around on the floor and sofas, eating snacks out of boxes as blessedly quiet Christmas music filters from the speaker above the tree drawn on the wall with luminescent pen.

Allura is standing by the viewscreen, trying to act out a movie she’d probably never seen while everyone yells out guesses. She bends over backwards, flipping into a handstand to demonstrate _something_ (what, he has no idea) and Lance’s heart stops.

Blood is pounding in his ears, and it takes several attempts before he manages to hear Keith’s dad asking about who the girl ‘on stage’ is, and several more before Lance’s dry mouth manages to form the words.

“That’s Allura. She was my girlfriend, before she…”

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, and that small sound — not even a word — is filled with more understanding than any other. “I’m sorry. I know how it goes.”

Lance glances at him, a bitter part of him already wondering if he really does — but then he sees the lines of pain etched on his face and thinks back to earlier, when the walls had echoed with sobs instead of laughter, and realises that he does.

_Loss is hard._

When he looks back to Allura he feels a little less alone. It’s strange, really; it still hurts, but now he can appreciate the fact that he’s actually seeing her graceful form and bright sapphire eyes, hearing that familiar irritation in her voice at their wrong guesses, watching her face contort into some of her sillier expressions...and despite the tears leaking from his eyes, he’s glad he’s seeing her at all. Even if it’s only in a memory.

Keith’s dad pats him on the shoulder comfortingly, then starts looking around the room. “If I’m going to be honest, I’m a little bit surprised you weren’t with the little one. What happened there? You didn’t like her back?”

His eyes are still glued to Allura, who tosses her head back in exasperation and stalks up to Pidge and starts pointing at her ears with both hands. Guesses are hurled left and right — _Plants! Earrings! Arteries! Cthulu! —_ but it isn’t until past Lance yells _Olkari!_ that Allura proclaims “Finally!” and slumps in the seat next to Shiro, vindicated.

“Olkari? Now how the heck did you guess that?”

Lance laughs, watching as Allura complains to Shiro and Pidge gets up to begin miming a TV show with three words and four syllables. “She was pointing at the earrings. I made them, so I knew they were meant to be Olkari vines.”

“You made them, huh?” Keith’s dad lifts an eyebrow and walks purposefully towards Pidge, leaning in to get a good look at the jewellery as she gestures wildly, completely oblivious to his presence. “Whoo-ee, these must have taken you a while. Odd present to give a friend.”

“Yeah,” Lance says, biting his lip, but Keith’s dad is still looking at him expectantly and he decides to admit something he’s never admitted to anyone before: “I liked her, okay? For a good year or so. I made her a necklace to go with those earrings, but by the time I finished it I was dating Allura so I never gave it to her.”

He didn’t know why. When Allura started smiling back at him it had been all too easy to put those feelings aside and go back to being gaming buddies, but it always just felt weird giving her a handmade necklace when he was dating someone else. The necklace was put in a keepsake box and forgotten about, and it still sat there now, along with his bayard and other remnants from his time as a paladin.

Keith’s dad went and sat on the sofa next to Allura, smiling indulgently as she shouted completely nonsensical guesses that made Pidge visibly frustrated. “The princess isn’t with you anymore though, right? So what’s stopping you from giving her the necklace now?”

His mouth goes dry. “I...it… It just feels like betraying her.”

“Betraying who?”

“Allura.”

Suddenly his heart is aching again, the pain sharp and as fresh as ever. His eyes rove over her form, drinking in every detail, trying to commit each one to memory because he _knows_ he’s forgotten some and he won’t ever have this chance just to _look_ again.

“How?”

“She gave her life for us, so that we could live,” he murmers, but he’s not really paying attention, too taken with the gleam in her eyes, the sly smirk on her face. “It doesn’t feel— No, wait!”

The world has already flashed, and Allura’s _gone_ , gone like she was before, when he lost her the first time. A sob chokes out of him, and he hunches in on himself. All he wants to do is go back, _back,_ back to when even though she’d never looked at him like _that_ she was at least _there_ —

“Lance.”

Firm hands grab his shoulders and shake him roughly. He lifts his head warily, meeting the steely gaze of Keith’s dad for what he somehow knows will be the last time. Moments pass, the only noises the soft ticking of the clock, the rushing of the wind outside, and his harsh breathing as it slowly evens out.

It’s many moments before Keith’s dad speaks.

“It sounds like Allura gave you a gift, son. Wasting it is a piss-poor way of saying thank you.”

And then he’s gone, and Lance is left standing alone in the dark, empty house.


	3. Alien Abduction Is Only Exciting the First Two Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bringin' the terrifying space gods and biting off heads with a _snap_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously rue that image gave me nightmares ~~it's great~~

Lance knows the story of A Christmas Carol (well, the basics anyway) - and he dreads what comes next. Because Lance has been around space magic enough to know that anything is possible.

He isn’t even close to being a Scrooge though! He loves Christmas! He loves his family and he has real friends. He’s doing his very best to honor what Allura gave to him - to all of them. Why is this happening to him?

_ Who _ is doing this to him? 

Lance locks the windows and doors of the house - he knows it won’t help if this fiction-based intervention is actually happening and not just a bad dream, but he needs to do something - while his mind whirls over who the ghosts of present and yet-to-come could be. If _Keith’s_ _father_ is involved it could be anyone. 

The front door shuts with a click and Lance leans his shoulder against it, breathing a sigh of relief. The house is peacefully quiet.

Aside from the bells jingling in the kitchen. 

Time to get some real answers. Lance isn’t about to get surprised again. 

A soft glow spills from the kitchen into the hall. The scent of his mother’s candles calms him as he turns the corner. Surely this won’t be as bad as the first two. 

A buck-toothed yellow smile greets him near the open fridge and pops the top off a bottle of egg nog. “Hey, Lance. Long time no see,” Bob says. 

Lance shrieks, turns tail, and runs. 

The living room lights flip on even though Lance passes nowhere near a switch. Bob is in front of him - how did he do that? - and his chest makes contact with the hoverchair, knocking the air out of him. The floor catches his back with a thud. 

Lance doesn’t care about the soreness. “What are you doing in my house?” he says, an octave higher than he means to. “How are you even here?!”

Bob’s smile is smug as he rests an elbow on his armrest, his eyes glinting with amusement. “I enjoy a good celebration,” he says, “and for a species that names their planet ‘dirt’ you make some fantastic light displays. Norlax is always complaining about the studio lights, so I thought, ‘let’s find something even  _ more _ spectacular’.’” The cosmic being jerks down towards him and Lance backs up in panic until he hits the wall. Bob leans into his face. “Got any recommendations?”

“What? No - I - are you  _ serious _ ?” Lance chokes out. “That’s what you’re on Earth for? Flashy lights? You’re not here to show me how much fun my family and friends are having partying without me?”

Bob raises an eyebrow. “ _ You’re _ missing a party?”

“Two, actually,” he confesses, because why not have a heart-to-heart with the guy who was totally ready to boil him alive and feed him to the Snick? The night can’t get any weirder. “My family’s in Paris and the others are having one at the Garrison - wait,” he stops skeptically, “shouldn’t you know all this?”

To his relief, Bob hovers out of his personal space. The host scratches his head, eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement.  “Hmm… that doesn’t seem right. You five were awfully close. I mean, you’d never have won the game if you hadn’t been…”

His stomach ties up in a knot as he takes the opportunity to slide up the wall and stand. Quiznak - Bob would have actually trapped them there! “Why are you really here?” he pleads. “Did you send Keith’s dad and Lotor here?” Bob isn’t a ghost like them, surely he would have answers for this crazy night. He’d brought Zarkon back from the dead for the game after all. 

The reminder of Bob’s powers chills him. On the show they had seemed so quirky and silly, but here on Earth, in his own home and completely alone with him, the full weight of the being that is Bob really sinks in. 

It’s terrifying.

“Hm? Well those are interesting choices,” Bob muses. He casually hovers over to the plate of cookies and glass of milk Lance had prepared earlier - out of habit more than anything, since Nadia and Sylvio are with the rest of the family. “Did they help?” he asks as he picks up a snowman shaped cookie.

“Did they - what are you talking about? Can you please just tell me what is going on? Why am I living out a story about a stingy businessman?” he demands. “I’m not a scrooge!”

Bob bites the head off of the snowman, the snap sharp and pronounced in the otherwise silent night. The alien chews and points the body at him. “These are delicious. Give your mom my compliments, Bi-Boh-Bi’s biscuits always fall so  _ flat _ ,” he leans in to whisper, “don’t tell him that, he’s very sensitive about not being able to follow Hunk’s recipes.” 

Before Lance can respond, Bob is in his face again. “You’re a nice kid, Lance, but you gotta work with me, I’m kinda limited here. In dire circumstances I can stretch for heroes who have passed the test. And she’s right, you  _ really _ need an intervention. Cookie?”

A switch flips in his brain. “No! I don’t want a cookie! I don’t need help! Especially not yours! I don’t need an intervention. Everyone knows that!”

Before he finishes, Bob’s eyes are already shining with a eureka moment. “Oh do they?” he asks.

When Lance next blinks he stands in the lobby of a beautiful hotel. The word ‘Regency’ is plastered over every piece of furniture and all over the walls in elaborate cursive — the place where his family is staying. He knows he isn’t really here, but he yelps all the same when a bellhop walks through him pushing a cart full of luggage. 

“I am never going to get used to that,” he says with a shiver. 

“It’s fun to be the one doing the haunting for once isn’t it?” Bob says, and Lance realizes he’s gripping the stupid hoverchair like a lifeline. 

Fear seizes Lance and he holds his breath as he remembers the airlock and the intense heat of the near supernova star. Zarkon had been a cinch compared to that traumatic experience. Against the haunted Castle he had had no agency; if he’s going to go, he wants to go down fighting. 

Like Allura. 

His shoulders slump and his heart aches anew. “This probably would be a lot more fun if I knew why you’re putting me through this,” he admits lamely.    


“Ah, lighten up a bit.” Bob nudges his arm. “Check it out, your family’s right over there.”

Lance can’t help the affectionate chuckle that escapes his lips when he follows Bob’s pointing finger. His family stands in a row, handing out food and blankets to a long line of people outside the door to the grand ballroom turned dining hall. Like most hotels, it’s been partially converted to help those still getting back on their feet after the Galra occupation.

Even the kids are helping. Sylvio and another boy are talking each other’s heads off. It’s just like his family to be helping others when they’re supposed to be on vacation. 

“My Uncle was the Red Paladin!” he brags as his mother hands him a blanket to distribute. “He and Auntie Veronica have been all over space!”

The other boy takes it with wide-eyed wonder. “I’m gonna go to space one day too!”

“Cute kid,” Bob observes. “Has some good heroic energy to him; lots of potential.”

Because the memory is fresh thanks to Keith’s dad, Lance can’t help but superimpose Sylvio in his shoes. Coming back as a Paladin had ignited a blaze in his nephew for a career in space and he’s old enough to prepare for the entrance exams for flight school prep. There’s no doubt in his mind the Blue Lion would have chosen him in an instant. 

“Mami keeps saying he reminds her of me when I was his age,” he says as the boys begin discussing what shape their bayards would take. 

“Hmm,” Bob makes a show of counting off his family members. “I’m pretty sure there’s one missing.”

Rachel isn’t there, Lance now notices. She’s usually at his side, being his shadow when he’s not hers, so he never really  _ looks _ for her.

Veronica scrunches up her face and looks around, bobbing her head slightly and doing the same mental math. She excuses herself, handing Nadia off to her mother. 

Sometimes the Red Lion would be going at such a fast clip that Lance wouldn’t be able to make out the scenery. He and Bob shift in a similar blur until they find Rachel sitting by herself outside, thumbing over her phone with a sour expression. 

“She can’t be sad for me,” he guesses. “She knows I’m home. Someone has to watch the irrigation systems after last week’s malfunction, and Kaltenecker gets so lonely too.”

Veronica slides in next to her sister, surprising her with a hug. Rachel smiles briefly from the contact. 

“I know he’s home,” she says before Veronica can prompt her, “but every time we’re apart I get scared I’ll never see him again.” She bites her lip in an obvious attempt to keep from crying. 

“Lance is as resilient as a cockroach,” Veronica teases. Lance groans, less out of annoyance and more that he wasn’t present to respond properly to the sibling roast. “Even if he does disappear, he’ll always come back to us.”

Rachel turns the phone around in her hands. “Even when the Lions took him, I could still feel he was alive. I  _ knew _ it in my heart he was. But now, even though he’s with us and all the danger is passed, it feels like he’s an empty space.”

Veronica laughs despite Rachel’s somber mood. “Who would have thought your weird ‘twin sense’ would come in handy?” She pauses, then says with more empathy, “Lance is more well-adjusted than we give him credit for. He went through things we can only imagine and he’s still himself. His heart needs to heal, and that takes time.”

“Then he should be here with us,” Rachel says with frustration. “Or with his friends, I don’t care. No one should be alone on Christmas because they’re worried about flowers. This’ll only make the hole in his heart bigger.”

His sisters embrace as their figures fade away. 

The surroundings blur, speeding presumably to their next destination. “I didn’t realize they were this worried about me,” Lance confesses. Guilt eats away at him for causing his twin so much pain. 

“Sisters are like that,” Bob says in a tone that feels strangely like sympathy. “Mine was the same way.”

Before Lance can press the subject of Bob having a family, the cosmic being continues, “Anyway, enough of that stuff - lets  _ party _ !” He blows on a noise maker - where did he get that  _ and _ the Santa hat he’s suddenly wearing? - and Lance finds himself in the MFE hanger. 

Strings of multi colored lights drape across the Defenders vehicles. Tinsel and greenery are strung across the bay doors and over the dozens of tables laden with delicious-looking hors d'oeuvres. Lance frowns. He doesn’t recognize nearly as many people as he should. Were all these people on the Atlas? Did he not notice them?

His eyes automatically fall to the one person who knows how to party more than he does. Hunk is completely content to restock the crystalline punch bowl, pestering Kinkade for some critique on the pies, filled with a new fruit from the Daeltarian Belt. 

Bob inhales annoyingly beside him and sighs loudly, interrupting Lance’s reverie of past Garrison social events where he and Hunk would stick together like glue. “Every time I smell something that kid makes, I regret not keeping you all on the show. You think he’d be interested in a guest role?”

Bob’s nonchalance chills him, but the flush in his cheeks warms the rest of his body when he sees Pidge mingling in the crowd, pleased to see she’s wearing the earrings he made for her so long ago. She greets everyone she bumps into congenially, but is looking about with a sense of purpose.

Hunk greets her with a wave, and from a distance it’s clear to Lance that he’s running interference, traveling from across the hanger to intercept her. “Hey, Pidge, find what you were looking for?”

She scowls and answers, “No.”

Hunk gets that look on his face, the skeptical one where he’s plotting to make you feel better. “Okay, well, I need your help. Come on.”

He all but shoves her towards the kitchen, and she makes little complaint. If anything the partygoers look  _ jealous _ .

“Shall we find out what’s behind door number one?” Bob asks.

“Do I have a choi -- pwaaaarp?” 

A noisemaker appears in his mouth before he can finish and a bib rests on his chest. Bob wraps two arms around his shoulders. “I am  _ starving _ !”

He screams through the party favor as Bob zooms forward and drags Lance into his lap. Being a passenger in a floating chair driven by an all powerful cosmic being is a stark contrast to the freedom and partnership of a Voltron Lion. He misses Red something fierce now as he clings to the pilot, the two speeding towards the closed doors. 

Lance knows they’re going to go right through them, but Bob’s manic grin does nothing to ease his panic. 

He shuts his eyes a tick before going through.

“Wow! Hunk this is - this is  _ amazing _ !” Pidge says in wonder. 

Lance dares a peek and beholds the source of Pidge’s praise. Each of the Defenders vehicles has been rendered in extraordinary detail with baked goods. In the center, a fully formed Voltron stands surrounded by each individual Lion.

Pidge is darting all around the kitchen island, examining the masterpiece from every angle. Hunk stands to the side, looking for all the world like a proud parent. 

“I can’t believe you even included the dynotherm connectors!” Pidge goes on. “This has got to be the coolest thing you’ve ever made, Hunk.” She squeals, her eyes lighting up with stars. “It looks so _ right _ ! And I’ve never seen so much gingerbread before.”

“Yeah, I know,” Hunk says. “I was super missing the team one night, and I got to thinking how cool it would have been for Voltron and the Defenders to team up and stuff! Also,” he says smugly, “it’s not all gingerbread.”

Hunk breaks off the Green Lion’s tail and hands it to Pidge for taste-testing. The piece has barely hit her tongue when she sucks in a lungful of air and her eyes well with tears. 

“Hunk,” she sniffs, “you are literally the best.”

“I know you’ve been feeling down lately, so I figured a peanut butter cookie Green Lion would be just what you needed.”

Lance turns to Bob. “Wait, why is Pidge sad? She’s doing amazing things at the Garrison with her family. This is what she’s always wanted.”

Bob gives him a side grin. “Is that your final answer?”

Lance knows he’s wrong, so he pays closer attention. 

Pidge frowns and the mood of the room changes so dramatically Lance can feel the goosebumps up his arms. “Yeah… thanks for trying, Hunk. This really is amazing. Why aren’t you showing it off out there?”

Hunk takes a knife to the now tailless Green Lion and evens out the surface. “I was hoping to show Lance. It’s only fair he gets to see it first.”

“He’s not coming. You know that right?”

“He might still show up,” Hunk insists. “I know he said he needed to take care of the farm, but it’s not like the pre-Voltron days. He could be here within the hour if he really wanted to. I mean - this is a Christmas party. This is his  _ thing _ .”

“Used to be,” Pidge says. She looks away from Hunk, but Lance has a front row view to her very hurt face. 

“Look, we’re all worried about him, Pidge. But he’ll get better.”

“It’s been years, Hunk!” She turns back towards him in frustration. “It’s great that he’s with his family — I’m the last person who can fault him for wanting that — but I thought for sure he’d jump at the chance to at least  _ help _ transition the new pilots. The MFEs are swamped as it is with their regular missions. Lance would be a great flight instructor if he wanted to. He knows what it's like to work for it.”

Hunk nods. “Oh I know. I was there too. I’m running out of ideas for him.”

“We tried,” Pidge says with a shrug. “If he doesn’t want to help with the Defenders project, that’s up to him.”

“So let me get this straight,” Bob says. “You went to school, studied your butt off to be a pilot - the one big dream you had - and now you’re not flying at all?”

“I...I didn’t really think about it that way,” he admits. “I guess I just have more important things to do now.” It sounds so lame when he puts it that way, but his heart still aches with the need to oversee anything involving preserving Allura’s memory. 

Bob grabs him by the arm and yanks. Lance yelps as they pass through the door and back into the party. 

It’s a little later in the evening now, the partygoers are applauding. Shiro thanks them for the warm reception in his formal dress from a podium. He turns and encouragingly pats Keith on the shoulder as the two former Black Paladins switch places. 

Keith is wearing his Blade of Marmora uniform, the wear and tear more obvious than that of Shiro’s clothing. It’s clear he’s been in a few scrapes despite the Blade’s transition to a relief organization. 

Keith coughs and taps the mic. The feedback makes Lance and most of the partiers wince before it fades away. Keith has their silence and attention now. 

“Shiro’s already covered the thank yous, but thanks,” he starts a bit awkwardly, but his confidence grows as he begins to speak about his work. “Without all of your support here, the Blades couldn’t do what we do. Just this past year we’ve supplied millions of items to hundreds of planets still transitioning to self rule. We have big plans for the next year, expanding the wormhole network further across the universe so we can help more people get back to peaceful and comfortable lives.”

The words are plain - it wouldn’t be Keith otherwise - but he conveys them with a belief and passion that is infectious, and the crowd puts their hands together for him. He clearly loves what he does and believes in it. Lance feels both proud and jealous. There was a time when those pep talks were for such a small group, when all the Paladins had such hope for the future. Bob’s presence reminds Lance of his own words; Keith is out there fulfilling it, bringing the Galra together and mending the universe one planet at a time.

“Sounds like he’s been busy,” Bob chimes in. “Think he’s still drawing in his downtime?”

“I don’t think Keith has a lot of downtime,” Lance says. “It’s never really been his thing.”

Bob makes a show of thinking. “You two are kinda doing the same thing aren’t you, spreading the Voltron legend and all? Although if you ask me he could use some pizzazz to his delivery.”

“I guess so?” Apparently there were a lot of things he hasn’t been considering lately. “Everyone’s working with their families. We may be doing different things but we’re still Voltron, it’s all for the same goal.”

Bob gestures to him, prompting, “and you do?” 

Lance bristles. “I’m spreading Allura’s message when I can, keeping her legacy alive. That’s important.”

“Which is what Keith is doing, yeah? Pidge too with the Defenders. Are the diplomatic missions of Hunk and Shiro chopped liver?” Bob sighs dramatically. “Look, Lance, I’ve been testing heroes since before Earthlings were a thing. I like to think I have a pretty good read on people; I refuse to think I got you wrong.”

Lance growls. “I’m not the dumb one you think I am.” He clenches his fists. “I’m not the same cocky kid I was when we left Earth.”

He’s not expecting Bob to agree with him, nodding instead of rubbing the idiot card in his face. 

“You’re the Red Paladin of Voltron,” he waves airily, as if it were old news, “the instinctive and temperamental right hand. You may have grown and changed into that role, but you will always be grounded in the role of the Blue Lion. For all the marbles, Lance, what  _ is _ that?”

He’s about to give Bob the answer, to spit it out angrily, but his mouth runs dry when the words don’t come. 

He doesn’t know the traits of the Blue Paladin; he never gave Allura the chance to tell him. 

Bob’s smug grin returns. “You don’t know, do you? How are you supposed to move forward if you don’t know the ground you stand on?”

Lance reflects; Allura was a leader, her heart was big and her curiosity for people ever present. Her bravery and risky decisions brought victory when it mattered. She wasn’t afraid to make the ultimate sacrifice. 

“Allura was a mix of all of us,” he finally says. “With time she could have piloted any of the Lions.”

“Eh, think on it a bit more,” Bob shrugs and zooms in close, turning Lance by the shoulders to where Keith has withdrawn into himself from the crowds. “I’ve been looking forward to this part! Bet you won’t like it though.”

“Wait, what are you talking about?” 

Pidge has found Keith, and they happily chat about something - he and Bob are far enough away he can’t hear. She has a mischievous glint in her eye, the one she gives him right before she creams him in Killbot Melee Three. He knows that look all-too-well: She’s about to pull something on Keith. 

Lance is completely unprepared when she leans up on her tiptoes, cups Keith’s mildly confused face in her hands, and kisses him on the lips. He’s only marginally aware of the pathetic squealing sound that escapes his mouth as his brain fails to process the context of the sight. 

“Oooh, looks like he’s catching on,” Bob says, voice rising in excitement. Lance’s brain feels so numb watching his friends somehow get even closer to each other, he’s sure Bob isn’t talking about him. 

The kiss lingers for longer than makes platonic sense. Keith gets over his surprise and returns the kiss with a soft and peaceful expression on his face. 

“Looks like they’re both really going at it,” Bob exaggerates. “I think he’s smiling - ooohhh is that tongue?” He’s barely aware as Bob nudges him, waggling his eyebrows. “Girls love the artists, eh?”

“Why are you showing me this?!” Lance yells, gesturing wildly at his teammates. “This has  _ nothing _ to do with me!”

“I thought we established that you have a thing for her. She was all you could think about playing Garfle Warfle Snick.”

“Sure I did! But I’m not sure how I missed that she has a thing for Keith!” Now that Lance thinks on it, the two always seemed to be on the same page. Maybe he  _ had _ missed something?

Bob sighs boredly. “For a usually observant guy, you’re missing the point - again.” 

He points above the kissing Paladins and all the fluster leaves him in an instant. The old Lance would have seen it right away - even actively sought it out!

The mistletoe. 

Pidge and Keith break apart and both start laughing over their new inside joke. Pidge perked up to take advantage of the tradition so easily - would she have done the same for him?

“I’m not paying enough attention to others, am I?” he asks.

“Ding ding ding!” Bob zips around him and blows on his noisemaker, dropping a lei over his head. “Congratulations, you’ve passed step two.”

Lance jumps as fireworks go off in succession all around him. The Garrison party-goers carry on as if nothing is happening. The bright lights and loud sounds overwhelm him and by the time it calms down, he’s back in his room; the stillness of the night deafening after the sensory overload. 

He expects Bob to be already gone after both Lotor and Keith’s father left him so suddenly, but the host is still with him. 

Bob laces both sets of hands together. “Alright, Lance, my time with you is almost up and we’re in the bonus round now. We’ve checked in on your family and your friends, all of whom are in various stages of misery without you. You helped save all realities. You can’t have done that without knowing who you are.”

Lance does know. He once called Allura the heart of Voltron, and he meant it, but - he isn’t sure he deserves that title for himself, the glue that holds the team together. They seem fine without him. 

“Everyone has their niche,” Lance says as he plops down on his bed. “Keith and Shiro are born leaders, Pidge and Hunk are geniuses. Me? I’m a good shot and I’m just… me,” he finishes lamely.

“I seem to remember that being enough for both your leader and for the princess,” Bob nods, sagely rubbing his chin. “I’d bet my last quazenbullion credit it’s enough for the small angry one, too.” He winces and rotates his shoulder. “The phantom pain is still there.”

Lance laughs sharply. Pidge taking down a god on his behalf is the first joyful memory he’s had tonight. “She got you good,” he jabs, and it feels great to finally get the upper hand. 

Bob doesn’t take the bait, and grins back. “Is it me, or is it you she’s got?” He leans back into his chair and holds up a single finger. “You’ve got one more field trip tonight, Lance. Take it to heart and the game is yours.”

Lance blinks and Bob is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted you all to know this was the placeholder Hailqiqi left for me in this chapter and I'm dying: Hello my baby, hello my honey, Bob kinda looks like Kermit the Frog and you know it. 
> 
> Now you all have the image of Bob doing the Michigan J. Frog in your heads.


	4. No 'Doctor Who' Christmas Special Prepared Him for This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes a village to get a grown man to quit moping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if this lacks any trace of Christmas spirit...blame it on the fact that i don't celebrate the holiday ~~or on the Angst~~
> 
> hope it does the stellar chapters that came before it justice <33

There’s no way Lance is sleeping tonight, not after visits from two ghosts and one whatever the quiznak Bob is and the promise of _another_ , so he doesn’t even bother. Instead he stumbles downstairs to the living room and boots up the Mercury Gameflux he should _really_ return to Pidge.

(Never mind that she’s having so much fun without it - and him - at a party.)

Well, he might as well take advantage of being the only one home, and a mindless video game he beat more times than he can count is as good a distraction as any. This Christmas already proves to be a bad one, a poor representative of the holiday and nothing like the ones of his childhood while his family goes on _vacation_. Quiznak, he never _did_ get to introduce Allura to Christmas on _Earth_ …

Lance jerks the controller’s joystick a little harsher than necessary, and his avatar on the screen launches itself off a cliff. He scowls as the music lowers in pitch, his lives ticking down by one.

The blue light emanating from the screen flickers, an electrical hum filling the air. A sigh escapes Lance while the shadows coalesce in the corner of the room, and he pauses the game before the cloaked figure blocks his view of the screen.

“Oh, great,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes. “Let me guess: you’re the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, and if the last guy was Bob you’ll be…Zarkon?” No, that can’t be right; the figure’s too short and not _nearly_ bulky enough for him. He raises an eyebrow and guesses again, “Haggar?”

“I am most certainly _not_ Haggar!” the figure hisses in a familiar voice that sends a shiver down Lance’s spine, and his worst fears - or fondest hopes? - are confirmed when they push their hood back.

Lance jumps, the controller slipping from his fingers when he yelps, “Allura?”

Allura crosses her arms, her pink cheek markings gleaming the dark. “That is my name.”

Lance stands up slowly, his heart in his throat and his breath trapped in his lungs as he steps towards her. “Really? _You_ _’re_ the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?” And rather than saying anything else he’s wanted to say to her - he should’ve kept a list… - since she gave her life for the universe, he wonders, “Shouldn’t you _stay_ cloaked?” He gestures towards her hood. “I thought the whole point of the cloak was that the future was always changing so you can’t _really_ know it.”

Allura frowns, looking utterly unimpressed, and observes, “You sound like Bob.”

“So is that a—”

“It’s a bit stuffy under the hood, so I decided against it. Besides”—a hint of a smile crosses her face—”wouldn’t you rather see someone familiar for your last journey through time?”

“Does this mean you’re the last one?” Lance wonders hopefully. Maybe after Allura’s visit comes to an end - the thought of it _ending_ makes his chest tighten - he can _finally_ get some beauty sleep.

(And oh, will he need it if he keeps finding silver hairs.)

But Allura doesn’t reply except to grab his wrist, and Lance blurts, “Wait, the TV—”

His surroundings dissolve, the blue-lit darkness of the living room giving way to a conference room Lance recognizes immediately from the Garrison.

It’s a much smaller party than the one Bob showed him, with the table shoved against the wall and heavily laden with dishes both familiar and foreign and…alien. A wreath decorated with a red bow hangs from the door, and a streamer reading CONGRATULATIONS DEFENDERS underneath a more seasonal MERRY CHRISTMAS hangs from the ceiling.

He almost doesn’t recognize Pidge standing at the front of the room, not with hair long enough to sweep her shoulders or wearing an elegant green dress rather than the Garrison uniform most of the guests don. She raises a glass of what looks like champagne and clinks a fork against it, attracting the attention of everyone in the room.

A smile lights up her face, bright enough Lance wishes he could pretend she directs it at _him_. “We’ve come so far, Defenders,” she says. “Just a few years ago we were only in the prototype stage, and _finally_ tomorrow our first ship launches with the Garrison’s best pilot in the cockpit.” She flashes a grin and a wink at the unfamiliar man standing beside her and adds, “I’m sorry, Keith; we’ve let him usurp you.”

Laughter fills the room, and another familiar voice says, “He’s welcome to it.”

Lance spins around, his eyes widening when they land on a smiling Keith standing with Hunk and… _himself_.

An older version of himself, one with a hint of gray in his hair and who looks a touch sullen judging by the glares he keeps shooting at the man beside Pidge, the one she named “the Garrison’s best pilot”. The champagne flute in his - or in future Lance’s - hand is already empty, though no one else’s is, and for one painful heartbeat Lance thinks he understands.

He wishes the pilot launching into space was _him_.

Everyone toasts the launch, and it’s then that Lance notices that Pidge doesn’t drink from her glass. Instead the pilot beside her takes it and—

—he and Allura stand right behind him in a blink, in time to watch Pidge rest a hand on her stomach and mutter, “I’d kill for an empanada.”

“After this, I’ll take you,” the man promises. His fingers interlace with hers, a silver band glittering.

Lance’s stomach knots with dread. He steps back, unsure if he wants to see this but unable to look away when they share a brief kiss. “Is she—is she pregnant?” he asks Allura.

Allura, oddly silent where Bob had been all too happy to make frequent observations, confesses, “She is. She told him just this morning.”

“Told who?” Lance asks.

But before she can reply, his future self marches his way through laughing scientists both human and alien, heading right for Pidge and her…whatever that guy is to her.

“Lance?” Pidge says, her voice breathy with surprise. “You came?”

The man/pilot looks decidedly displeased rather than shocked. He wraps a protective arm around Pidge’s shoulders, and—

“Hey!” Lance screeches as the scene changes from the warm and crowded conference room to a chilly and well-lit sidewalk. He rounds on Allura and says, “I was watching that!”

Allura sighs, her eyes darting away from him, and says, “I wanted to spare you that.”

“I thought I was supposed to be learning something from this time travel,” Lance says, throwing up his arms in exasperation. “How am I supposed to _learn_ if I don’t see what you want to show me?”

“I’m not sure the specifics of your and Pidge’s fight will do you much good,” Allura tells him.

Lance’s heart sinks. “What fight?”

“They…change,” she admits, smiling weakly. “It’s the nature of trying to predict the future. Sometimes you try to sway her away from her betrothed because you once had an affair—”

“We did _what_?”

“—and others you demand answers for why she didn’t choose you for the mission.”

“W-what?” Lance’s jaw drops. “But I’m not even a—I’m not a pilot anymore!” He blinks, remembering that Allura is showing him the _future_ , and wonders, “Did that change and she _still_ didn’t choose me?” And why does that feel like a smack to the face, for Pidge to pass him over like that?

“I’m afraid…it hasn’t,” Allura says.

The scenery shifts from a suburban street to the familiar inside of his family’s farmhouse. A Christmas tree stands in the corner, its branches heavy with a bizarre mix of ornaments.

Allura picks one up - Lance immediately recognizes it as an angel that Silvio decorated one year in school, though its paint is more chipped than he remembers - and wonders, “What _is_ the reason for these?”

“Uh…to make the tree look pretty?” Lance supplies with a shrug.

“Yes, but they all look so _different_.” Allura pokes a classic red bauble. “And why _do_ you all worship a fuzzy tree this time of year?”

Lance chuckles - did he really never explain this part of Christmas to her? - and says, “We don’t worship the tree. It’s just for decoration.”

“What if it starts a fire?” she wonders. “It’s made of fibers, isn’t it? And that’s easily ignited so—”

“Allura,” Lance says, grabbing her attention with a hand on her shoulder, “it’s just a tradition. Sometimes we do things because they’re a _tradition_. Didn’t you have stuff like that on Altea?”

Allura’s gaze drifts down, her affect so somber his stomach twists with regret, but she nods and concedes, “Yes, and I suppose you would find them just as alien as I find yours.”

“Right,” Lance agrees. He rubs the back of his neck as they drift into an awkward silence - oh, he hasn’t missed _those_ with her - but the clinking of metal utensils on glass plates distracts him.

Lance leads the way into the noisy dining room. The first thing he notices with a squeeze in his chest is that his Meemaw is nowhere in sight. The next thing, judging by the number of children Lance doesn’t recognize, is—

“You’re the only one of your brothers and sisters unmarried,” Allura points out. She raises an eyebrow at where future Lance - at least a few years older than the _last_ future Lance - sits between Veronica and his mami.

“When are you going to bring that new girl home to meet us, Lance?” his mami wonders. Her words, directed at his future self, cut through the cacophony of a million other conversations.

“I don’t know,” future Lance says with a dismissive wave of his fork. “I still haven’t figured out if she’s the _one_ , you know?” He avoids her eyes in favor of spearing a chunk of turkey and stuffing it into his mouth.

“I haven’t seen you eat like _that_ in a while,” Allura notes with some amusement.

Lance, utterly _un_ amused, rolls his eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on Allura,” Veronica cuts in with a frown. “You were so excited to introduce her to us, but now you keep putting us off the scent.”

Future Lance sets his fork down as a grimace crosses his face. “Maybe Allura was the _one_ ,” he retorts.

The air is too thick and solemn for what should be a pleasant holiday meal with family, but a hush falls over the table.

Veronica’s hand falls onto future Lance’s shoulder. “Lance, even if she was your soul mate, you can’t just…consign yourself to widowhood because someone you dated for two months died. Hell, Shiro and his ex had one of the most solid relationships I’ve ever seen, and even _he_ _’s_ married to someone else now.”

Lance can’t help a sideways glance at the ghost of Allura standing beside him, can’t help the twisting in his gut when she doesn’t meet his eyes.

Future Lance throws up his hands and snaps, “Then I guess not all defenders of the universe have to put up with this!”

“Lance!” his mami chides, but Veronica replies tartly, “What are you talking about? You’re a farmer now, or did you already forget?”

He gasps, his heart heavy with regret and his shock leaving him speechless. Would he really talk to his sister, no matter how snide, like that on Christmas Eve?

But the scene changes before he sees what happens next.

Lance instantly recognizes Sam and Colleen Holt’s living room, minus one bull terrier and plus shredded gift wrap littering the floor. Krolia, of all people, sits cross-legged on the floor with a boy Lance has never seen in his life - though, well, he probably hasn’t been born yet - in her lap. She grins at the boy - he’s three years old at most, Lance guesses - before sticking a bright green gift bow on his reddish brown hair.

The boy giggles the way only a small child can when Krolia blows a raspberry against his cheek.

Lance stares with wide eyes; he never thought Krolia the maternal sort…and why is she with the Holts anyway?

Allura redirects his attention with a touch to his shoulder. He glances at her, eyebrow raised, and she points at the living room doorway, half-hidden by a Christmas tree. Pidge stands there, agitatedly sliding a ring up and down her finger, with Keith, who appraises her with a furrow in his brow.

“I swear your mother will end up spoiling him worse than mine,” Pidge complains. Her heavy frown softens when her gaze falls on the boy in Krolia’s lap, and it hits Lance who he is.

“She has a _kid_?” he screeches, rounding on Allura. Nausea turns his stomach - oh, quiznak, if he throws up, will his vomit be as immaterial as his body? - and questions buzz through his mind so rapidly he can’t think which to ask first.

Lance looks between the boy and Pidge, searching for all the physical similarities and differences. Hair like hers in color and texture, a light dusting of freckles on his nose despite the season, maybe a little small for his age, but his eyes are gray rather than bronze like hers.

“He’s a…he’s a cute kid,” he observes, but with a tightening in his chest Lance wishes for him to be his _too_.

“I suppose,” Allura concedes, “but I never really understood the appeal of children at that age. They make such _messes_ and smell worse than a Kaltenecker.”

“Hey!” Lance exclaims, but she only rolls her eyes before jerking her head back towards the scene.

“…sorry that happened, Pidge,” Keith says. He pats her shoulder in an awkward approximation of comfort. “Anything Krolia and I can do for you?”

Pidge shakes her head before finally slipping her ring - her wedding ring? - off and tucking it into her jeans pocket. “It’ll be—it’ll be fine,” she says. “I’m an upstanding Earth citizen and a former Paladin of Voltron! There’s no way the judge will let my husband have full custody…is there?”

She sounds so uncertain - what’s _happening_? - that Lance’s heart aches for her. He steps towards them, longing to be the one to comfort her rather than have her suffer Keith’s feeble attempts at sympathy - obviously his strengths lie elsewhere - when a glint at her ears catches his eye.

“The earrings…” The vines glitter and scatter light from the nearby Christmas tree, almost _mocking_ him. “Allura, have Pidge and I - or future me, I guess - _talked_ lately?”

“I…no, you haven’t,” Allura admits with an apologetic smile. “You haven’t spoken since your fight at that first scene I showed you.”

“But she’s wearing earrings _I_ bought her,” Lance says, frowning.

“Those were from you?” Allura’s eyes widen slightly in surprise before she laughs. “Oh, did I ever tell you, Lance?”

“Tell me…what?”

Their surroundings melt away, Keith comforting Pidge and Krolia playing with her son dispersing faster than smoke, until they stand in front of the well-lit church in Varadero. Churchgoers pass under the gate after midnight mass while a few peel away to walk to the nearby cemetery.

Allura leads him after those while she confesses, “Before you asked me on that date, I thought you had feelings for Pidge.”

Lance snaps around to look at her. “I—what?” His conversation with the ghost of Keith’s dad rings in his head and he wonders, “Was it…that obvious?”

Allura shrugs before shooting him a rare teasing grin. “You forget I had four spies that reported only to me.”

He blinks at her, confused, until a surprised chuckle bursts out of him. He takes her hand and reassures her, “I promise all I saw when we were together was you, Allura.”

Her grin falters as she says, “I believe you, Lance, but you and I…sometimes I wonder if we both would’ve been happier had I told you no.” She tugs her hand from his grasp, and before he can stammer a startled reply or an assertion that she’s _wrong_ \- but is she? - she leads him into the gloomy cemetery.

As they walk further in, passing through gravestones as if they’re not there, he wonders with a gut-wrenching fear if he’s about to see his _mami_ _’s_ grave.

(For what purpose? So that he can learn she died disappointed in her youngest son?)

But the gravestone they halt before is unmistakably _his_.

Lance’s breath catches in his throat as he reads the simple stone carving. Nothing inscribed on it so much as indicates he was once a Paladin of Voltron, a hero of the universe, and there’s little more than an inscription declaring him a “beloved son, brother, and uncle”.

It tells so little of who Lance is - who Lance _was_ \- that a scowl twists his lips. Who was this Lance to leave so little behind when he died?

“Lance,” Allura says, jerking him from his bitter musings, “do all humans live such short lives?”

He can’t breathe while he takes in the numbers and does the math. “N-no,” he chokes out. A lump lodges in his throat - will he really end up mourning his _own_ death? - as his eyes narrow at the gravestone. “What did I even spend that life _doing_?”

“Farming juniberries,” Allura tells him. “You rarely saw the other Paladins - you only met Hunk’s children once - and you…well, you even stopped visiting Altea and never returned to space.”

Lance falls to his knees, but he’s somehow still dry-eyed, staring unseeingly at the gravestone. “Why? You—you love it there. You died to bring it back, so why would _I_ never go back?”

Allura kneels beside him and rests a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know for sure, but I can guess…”

“Then do it.”

“I suspect it became too painful for you to see our friends moving ahead with their lives while you…idled.” Her fingers tighten on his shoulder. “You lost your purpose when the Lions left, so now you must—”

An indistinct voice cuts her off as three people bundled in jackets and scarves - a chilly evening, he guesses, though he’s practically a ghost now and can’t feel it - approach. A tall, middle-aged woman with a beanie pulled past her ears leads the other two towards them.

Rachel always was sensitive to the cold.

Lance’s heart skips a beat when he recognizes the other two with her as Hunk and Pidge, and—wow, they both aged well, Hunk with his goatee not even a little spotted with gray and Pidge with a more mature beauty in the way she holds herself and the hint of wrinkles around her eyes.

(And who’s the lucky quiznaker that gets to grow old with her? Definitely not _him_.)

"...missed the funeral," Hunk is saying to Rachel as they draw closer. "We were both in space."

Lance's gut twists oddly at Hunk's words, both at the implication that they weren't at _his_ funeral and that they went into space without him.

(Of course they did if Allura's assertion that he never returns is _right_.)

"I understand," Rachel says. The three of them pause in front of the grave. "You both have busy lives, so I think he would too."

"I don't—I don't know," Pidge says with a waver in her voice. She sniffs and huddles closer to Hunk, for warmth or comfort or both, and he wraps an arm around her. "He wasn't so forgiving of it last time I saw him."

She speaks without bitterness, as if she only states an objective fact.

"Either way," Rachel says a little awkwardly, "we _are_ grateful that you visited since I'm sure you'd rather be with your own families for Christmas."

"Lance was our family too," Hunk tells her, smiling. "I can't forget him even if it's been a while since we met."

Pidge drifts away from him, passing through Lance until she stands right before his gravestone. She traces the inscription of his name with a fingertip and quietly muses, "He was a lot more than what this says..."

Rachel pinches her eyes shut and nods. "H-he was," she says, "and we'll remember him for it."

"Can I—can I have a minute alone?" Pidge asks.

Rachel's eyes widen with surprise, but she says, "Oh, sure." She paces away, and Hunk follows after Pidge reassures him she's fine.

Lance holds his breath, watching Pidge examining every centimeter of his gravestone. He doesn't dare glance at Allura, not when he wants to take in every second of this no matter how tightly an invisible hand squeezes his heart.

Pidge reaches into her jacket and tugs out a slim plastic case to set on his grave. "I think I waited too long to play this with you," she says in a surprisingly steady voice.

Behind him, Allura gasps, and when he finally turns to her questioningly, she says, "I recognize that game."

"What?" Lance looks over Pidge's shoulder. " _Killbot Phantasm 26_?"

"Yes...Pidge used it to barter for the dress I wore to my date with you," Allura explains. "I'm glad she eventually tracked down another copy."

Pidge...really did that? Lance returns his attention to her, hanging on every word she says to him - or to the future and very much dead version of him:

"How you died...it sucks, Lance," Pidge says. She sniffs, wiping at her nose with her sleeve, and continues, "You would've rather died in a-a heroic blaze of glory and not in something so _normal_ and random like a hit-and-run."

"Oh, I..." But Lance doesn't know what to say; does he _really_ die in such a forgettable way?

Pidge's hand covers her mouth, muffling a sob. "I wish I—quiznak, why were we both so _stubborn_? Who f—who _cares_ whose fault it was? I shouldn't have—after everything we—I'm sorry I waited till it was too late, Lance." She crumples, finally bursting into gut-wrenching tears.

Lance's own eyes burn as he kneels beside her. He tries and _fails_ to wrap an arm around her shoulders before stammering, "P-Pidge, you - _all_ of you - mean everything to me."

But of course she doesn't hear him.

The cemetery melts away to an even cooler and more dismal night. A simple stone obelisk rises before him, a plague at its front. In the distance - and with a _tug_ in his abdomen - stands the Galaxy Garrison’s main hangar, its exterior strung with red and green blinking Christmas lights.

A small floodlight washes the obelisk in a white glow that reflects off the metal plaque. Lance squints at the engraving and reads:

_Dedicated to the heroes of Earth and beyond that defended us in our hour of need._

His jaw drops as he scans the names inscribed below, recognizing every single one as someone he befriended, fought beside, and loved, from Shiro to Keith and the Blade of Marmora to Pidge and her family and Hunk and Allura and Coran and—

“M-my name,” he says numbly. “It’s not…it’s not here.”

Lance holds his breath as he reads the names over again, his gaze catching on _Veronica_ _’s_ , but with his heart sinking, he knows he won’t find it.

And the disappointment is so _crushing_ that tears finally escape his eyes. “Why am I not here, Allura?” he wonders. Feeling oddly detached from his actions, his fingertip traces his - or his sister’s - last name. “I-it’s stupid, isn’t it? Keith always almost… _scolded_ me for wanting attention, but they _forgot_ me…”

“If it’s any consolation,” Allura offers from just behind him, “this memorial wasn’t commemorated until most humans that fought to free Earth of the Galra had died. Someone who fought with you would never have forgotten.”

Somehow that hurts even more, as if his teammates, his friends, his _family_ never spoke of his role - if he had one at all. Bob’s parting words return to him in sharp relief, but he can’t help feeling their irony.

 _Is_ he enough if no one bothers to remember him?

(Is it _his_ fault if he’s so easily forgotten?)

“It’s—it’s not,” Lance admits, “but thanks for trying.”

He can’t tear his eyes away from the list. Every single person with their name engraved on the plaque deserves their place, but they _forgot him_.

He doesn't notice Allura touching his shoulder, doesn't notice the shift from the memorial to the farmhouse's living room, still illuminated by the screen stuck on a video game pause screen, doesn't notice much of anything until his dead girlfriend and personal version of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come wraps her arms around him and lets him bury his face in her shoulder.

"Well, this is awfully familiar," Allura says. "Are you...mourning your own death or Earth’s short memory?"

Lance sniffs and holds her a little tighter. "N-no, I'm—am I really that forgettable, Allura?" He pulls away to look her in the eye.

When she frowns and reaches up to cup his cheek, his skin tingling right where her thumb brushes the mark she left on him, he sees both everything he's lost and, for the first time, everything he still has to lose. "You're not," she reassures him, "but one day, you might be if you're not careful."

Lance lets go of her and turns to grab a tissue from the box on the end table only to realize she's transported them to his bedroom. Instead his gaze catches on the broken picture frame.

He picks it up, careful to avoid the sharp edges of broken glass, and guesses, "This intervention was your idea, wasn't it?"

"It was," she admits.

"Why?" he wonders, although he thinks he already knows the answer.

Allura smiles, though it holds an edge of sadness. "If there's anything I could change about my life after I met you and the other Paladins, it's that I shouldn't have let the past rule my future so much. And you..." She gently takes the frame from him and stands it up on his desk. "I can see you're on the verge of making the same mistake."

"Am I?" Lance still can't help the flicker of doubt despite everything he saw tonight. "I don't know, Allura...I want to uphold your legacy.”

“What about my legacy makes you think you should cultivate juniberries?” Allura demands, tone sharp enough that he flinches. She picks up the small vase with a single flower on his desk and pinches a pink petal between her fingertips. “Juniberries grew wild on Altea. They were prized precisely for how nearly impossible they were to cultivate.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Lance wonders.

“Because you’re on the brink of losing your way, Lance.” The corner of her mouth quirks up in a slight smile. "Find a purpose," she advises him. "It seems you work best when you have one."

"It feels like I lost mine when you died," he admits. “You never even told me what’s special about the Blue Lion.”

Allura sets the vase down. “I thought you would’ve figured that out for yourself, intuitive and supportive and _nurturing_ as you are.” She winks, and where once the gesture would’ve warmed his face, now it fills him with a cool understanding.

Lance rolls his eyes and grumbles, “Could’ve fooled me.” Then he sighs, running his fingers through his hair, and confesses, "I missed you _so_ much..."

"And that's all right," Allura says. She takes his hand and adds, "But you'll miss so much more if you're not paying attention to what and who else you love." She leans up and kisses his cheek, that odd, familiar affection he hasn't felt from her in years so startling his face warms, but before he can so much as respond she's gone.

Lance's heart pounds as he reacquaints himself with her absence. He dries his snotty nose with a tissue and sits on the edge of his bed, mind reeling with all this new - and old - information.

Quiznak, how does Pidge handle so much data at once without getting overwhelmed?

He can ask her that himself...can't he?

Lance isn't sure what impulse pushes him towards his closet. He rummages around, searching for the one cardboard box he tucked away just because he thought he could hide from the reminders like a coward.

The grin that pushes at his lips when he opens the lid and beholds his belongings from his Paladin days surprises him.

He finds the Blue Lion slippers first, shoving his feet into them - they _are_ a little chilly now that he has enough of a body again to feel the cold - before digging through the rest of the box's contents. His bayard is there, of course, as is the glove that came with the Mercury Gameflux, myriad knickknacks and souvenirs and gifts from different planets he visited, and—

Lance's fingers brush against a small, slim box. He grabs it and opens it before setting it aside and standing.

It's time to change his plans for the holiday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after this fic i think i'll go back to pretending season eight didn't happen...maybe ~~writing a Lance that deliberating isolates himself is WEIRD~~


	5. Nothing Is Set in Stone if You Carry a Chisel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance puts on his big-boy hat and slides down the chimney (or walks through the front door) bearing gifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen i know it's even past the twelve days or so of Christmas BUT here it is finally i deliver the epilogue and i apologize for the wait i was dealing with stuff ~~including a lack of motivation~~ and was struggling to write anything and of course holidays wait for no man or woman or person of indeterminate/other gender
> 
> shout-out to Hail and Rue for their encouragement and beta reading and continuity policing

Any guilt Lance feels at waking his mami when he calls disappears as soon as she answers, mumbling a sleepy hello before grumbling that he'd better be calling because Kaltenecker's barn is on fire or because he's hurt.

A smile stretches across his face as he reassures her, "Everything's fine! I just wanted to hear your voice since it's Christmas."

"And you couldn't call us earlier when we were"—a yawn cuts her off—"still awake?"

"Sorry, Mami." He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly right as his bus pulls into the stop. "I had an early flight to catch so I couldn't."

"Early flight?" Lance hears the sudden alertness in her voice and braces himself for a barrage of questions. "Don't tell me something kidnapped you into space again."

Lance chuckles - _if only_ \- and admits, "No, this was kind of a...last minute plan." Dread ties his stomach into knots while he files out of the bus and pauses at the bench, duffel bag slung across his back with the strap digging into his neck. It's cooler outside than he expected, and he shivers against a damp breeze.

He watches the bus pull away from the stop and wonders, "Mami, can I talk to Rachel? I know she sleeps like the dead but..."

His mami must hear something in his voice, for she sighs and says, "She'll wake up for you."

Lance grins - he can't feel _too_ ashamed of interrupting his sister's beauty sleep - but can't help the anxious drumming of his fingers against his thigh. He shifts his duffel bag as he finally leaves the bus stop and enters the neighborhood of neat houses with manicured drought-resistant lawns free of actual grass.

It's a huge contrast from the juniberry fields on his family's farm, and a shockingly welcome one. His chest loosens - he hadn't realized he was homesick for _here_ , of all places - as he approaches his destination.

"Hello?" Rachel mutters sleepily. "Lance?"

His smile widens, a spring entering his step, and he asks, "So are we still twins?"

"What? Mami wakes me up in the middle of the night so you can ask something stupid like _that_?"

"Well..." Lance chuckles and explains, "I lost about two years in space and when I came back to Earth you were...older than me, right?"

A heartbeat, two heartbeats, and Rachel says, "I'm too sleepy to deal with your nonsense, Lance."

"Yeah, fine, we can debate the finer points of time dilation and wormholes when you get back," Lance decides, rolling his eyes.

"Then if that's all—"

"Wait, Rachel," he says, for a joke doesn't even scratch the surface of what he wants - and _needs_ \- to say to her, "I know I'm not with you guys now, but I'm not going anywhere anytime soon without telling you first and I'll be home when you get back."

Rachel falls silent after a sharp intake of breath for so long Lance worries she fell asleep while still on the phone, but then she says, "Promise?"

Lance smiles and says, "Pinkie promise." His face falls as he adds, "And...can you tell Veronica I'm sorry for always being a brat to her?"

"As long as it can wait till morning..."

"It can," Lance assures her.

"I doubt she'll believe me, but okay."

Lance's jaw drops indignantly, but before he can express it she bids him goodbye.

He pauses at the end of a stone walkway, his heart pounding at the sight of a familiar wooden door and old-fashioned brass knocker. His feet shift while his stomach turns with apprehension, itching to be away...itching to sprint to the door.

When his mami greets him again he fumbles his phone - he almost forgot he hadn't hung up yet - and says, "Mami, I thought you would've gone back to sleep."

"I will," she says, "but...Lance, I so wish you weren't spending Christmas alone."

Lance licks his dry lips - quiznaking desert winter - and rifles through his duffel bag until soft velvet greets his fingertips. He tugs the floppy red hat out and drops it onto his bed before promising his mami, "I won't."

The door swings open.

Pidge stands there, a star-studded green sweater with a red-nosed reindeer stitched on the front hanging from her small frame. When her eyes land on him, her lips part in surprise. " _Lance_?"

Lance's heart skips a beat, but he musters the wherewithal to tell his mami he'll call her later and hang up. He raises a hand, a cautious smile blooming on his face, and wonders, "Am I still invited?"

"You said you weren't coming," Pidge says with a slight furrow between her eyebrows.

His insides twist guiltily even while he finds the courage to approach, every step an effort despite his resolve. "I-I know." He adjusts his hat and scratches his ear before saying, "I changed my mind."

"Hunk and Keith were both convinced you would," she muses.

Lance's eyes widen. "They were?"

Pidge smiles, and something in his chest loosens at the sight. "Maybe I should've had as much faith in you."

Lance rubs the back of his neck, his skin suddenly prickling with awkwardness, and before Pidge can step aside and let him, a sense of urgency spurs him to grab her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he says, in a rush to get the words out lest he lose his chance. "It was really crummy of me to hang up on you just because you invited me to your family's Christmas dinner."

Pidge stares up at him, her gaze utterly bewildered. "That's...I kind of just assumed you preferred to spend it with your family."

"Uh, well...they're in Paris," he admits with a sheepish smile, "and our big dinner is usually on Christmas Eve anyway." He spins his duffel bag around and zips it open, digging through its contents and pulling out the slim box. He hands it to Pidge, heat already rising to his face, and says, "This probably won't make up for my behavior and I really meant to give it to you ages ago but I figured better late than never, right?"

Pidge quirks an eyebrow as she accepts his hastily wrapped gift. She tears the paper away, her eyes bugging when she snaps the lid open. "What the quiznak?" Her gaze flicks to his before drifting away. "This matches the earrings you made me. Why did you hold onto it for so long?"

"I uh..." Lance shifts, suddenly feeling awkward standing on her porch while she stands inside, as if the threshold separating them is something momentous. "I got a little...caught up in something"—someone—"else, and—"

The lid clicks shut a heartbeat before Pidge flings her arms around his neck and presses her forehead into his chest. "It doesn't matter right now," she says, voice muffled, and he wonders if she heard some of the words he left unspoken. "I'm just glad you showed up."

Lance returns her embrace while a wide smile pushes at his lips. "Does that mean you don't want it?"

"No, I'm keeping it!" Pidge slips from his arms - he misses her already - and flashes her a grin before finally waving him inside. "You're lucky Hunk and my mom prepared more food than we can eat without you."

Lance follows her inside with his heart pounding and an apprehensive smile on his face, but any tension left in his shoulders eases when Hunk, in an apron that reads _Kiss the Cook_ , races down the hall and sweeps him into a backbreaking hug. "I knew it!" he crows while the front door creaks shut behind him. "I even saved you a piece of the Red Lion.”

Lance groans, rubbing his ribs, when Hunk lets him go. But he laughs and wonders, "How did you—"

_The cake from the party._

"Oh, great, I can't wait to try it!" Overcome with fondness and gratitude and the sheer relief of seeing that his friends _missed_ him, he smacks a kiss on Hunk's stubbly cheek and winks. "Bet it can't be as sweet as you though."

"Uh..." Hunk's jaw drops and Pidge, lingering nearby, sounds like she just choked on her saliva judging by a furious coughing fit. "What was that for?"

Lance shrugs. "I'm just doing what your apron said to do," he says before turning to a red-faced Pidge. "You okay?"

She nods, grabbing his arm as she doubles over and giggles. "Just peachy." She straightens, her smile not faltering, and pushes him down the hall. "Go talk to everyone else before we sit down for dinner."

Lance grins at her as he leaves, a pleasant warmth filling his chest when their eyes briefly meet. But he straightens his hat - Hunk's bear hug knocked it off-kilter - and walks the familiar hall to where he remembers the living room.

Behind him, he hears Hunk asking Pidge, "Do _you_ want to wear this apron?"

"Shut up," she retorts.

Lance detours to the kitchen, knocking on the door frame and greeting its occupants, "Hi, Sam and...Colleen." Commander Holt - Sam, which feels strange to call him since he hasn't seen him in years - stands at the stove stirring a pan of gravy while Colleen waits in front of the oven with her hands on her hips.

They both turn when he enters, wide-eyed in surprise before smiling. Colleen, dressed in a white apron embroidered with a reminder to _Eat Your Vegetables_ , approaches. "Lance!" she says, quick to pull him into a warm, maternal hug not unlike his mami's. She steps away before he can reciprocate - has Colleen ever hugged him? He can't remember - and adds, "Katie said you weren't coming."

"I changed my mind," Lance admits. He hands her a packet of juniberry seeds that germinated from an odd genetic variation. "I don't want to miss another family Christmas if I can help it."

Colleen smiles. "New seeds? Lance, you do know _I_ engineered this new juniberry species, right?”

Lance blushes and admits, “These ones are…a natural mutation.” He grins cautiously and promises, “You’ll like them! They’re white instead of pink.”

She wags a finger at him and tucks them into a pocket in her apron. “I’m trusting you. It seems you've done very well for them."

"Yeah, well..." Lance scratches his chin, self-conscious under her and Sam’s scrutiny. "I just found out juniberries were impossible to cultivate on Altea, so it's really all thanks to you."

"Really?" Sam raises an eyebrow. "Who told you that?"

Lance flushes and lies, "Coran."

"Interesting," Colleen says, frowning. "He never said anything like that to me."

Lance doesn't know if he imagines the suspicion in her gaze - just that it makes his skin crawl - but after asking if they need any help - his mami would be proud of him - he finally goes off in search of his old teammates.

The Holts' Christmas tree sits in the exact same corner as it did last night, its light blinking cheerfully and its boughs filling the air with a rich, piney scent. With his heart suddenly heavy, he turns his back to it, half-expecting Pidge and Keith lurking behind it in quiet conversation and Krolia cooing over a freckled toddler.

Instead an ambush awaits him.

Coran's hug knocks the breath from his lungs and forces him back a step, other warm bodies engulfing him within seconds. Fingers ruffle his hair and tug on his sweater and a stray arm shoves the Santa hat from his head while they all call greetings and express disbelief - is it really so unbelievable? - that he came.

Lance breathes when they withdraw, taking in their grinning faces as they return to wherever they sat before he intruded. Shiro perches on a sofa, a glass of eggnog in hand with Matt regaling him with some rebel story, while Krolia leans against the mantle inspecting a stocking overflowing with candy canes. Keith nurses a mug of steaming cider while Romelle chats his ear off about a diplomatic mission and Coran nods along enthusiastically.

For a heartbeat Lance feels out of place, with everyone comfortable and content and musing on their lives while he stands in the doorway staring at them, at least until someone small pushes past him.

Pidge bends down and picks up his fallen Santa hat. "Lose something?"

Keith ventures over and tugs on the strap of his duffel bag. "You going to carry this all evening?"

Lance stares between the two of them, an image of the kiss he accidentally - _thanks a lot, Bob_ \- witnessed between them replaying in his head. That familiar jealousy twists in his gut and he can't help but wonder... _is_ there something between them?

"Uh..." Lance lets Keith take his bag and deposit it on an ottoman while accepting his hat back from Pidge. "Wait, I...have gifts for you guys in there." He unzips his bag and tugs the first gift out. "For Shiro." He passes to him a mug he bought at the last minute from an airport gift shop, a purple bow stuck tot he handle to make it look more festive.

"Number One Grandpa?" Shiro reads, raising a skeptical eyebrow before a smile blooms over his face. He runs fingers through his white hair and sighs. "I thought you'd respect me enough not to make this joke anymore."

"Respect you, our fearless leader?" Hunk teases as he joins them. "Never."

Shiro chuckles before draining every last drop of his drink. "Matt, I think I need more eggnog if I'm to get through this dinner."

Lance laughs as Matt throws a crumpled wad of wrapping paper at Shiro. He finds the hard plastic in his duffel bag and presents Hunk with his gift. "And...uh, another apron to add to your growing collection."

Hunk takes it with the air of someone handling porcelain. "I will treasure it like I treasure anything else I have fifteen of." He raises an eyebrow at the design. "Superman?"

"Well, you _are_ a super man." Lance, with heat in his cheeks, punches his shoulder. Then he leans closer and promises, "For your birthday I'll get you that set of fancy kitchen knives you've been eyeballing."

Hunk grins. "For once, it won't be Keith getting a blade. Thank you, Lance."

Lance relaxes before turning to Coran with a little package in hand. "So I got you a brush...for your gorgeous mustache."

Coran accepts the package with unexpected tears swimming in his eyes. He sniffles before trumpeting into the handkerchief Romelle passes him. "Oh, Lance, you _shouldn't_ have!"

"Oh, wait, one more thing!" Lance remembers what else he brought and finds the second Santa hat - he meant to give that to Sam but figures Coran needs it more. "This is traditional Christmas headgear. Santa Claus wears it when he delivers gifts to children!"

Coran appraises the hat before perching it on his own head, heedless of the awful clash between the red velvet and his orange hair. "Is it a cloaking device that keeps him hidden from pursuers who wish to steal his gifts?"

"Uh...yes," Lance lies. "Let's go with that." He glances at Keith. "And for you"—he rifles through his duffel bag and finds the brown paper-wrapped present he bought in a fit of pique—"keep warm. It's cold in space."

Keith unwraps the paper and raises an eyebrow at the tasseled red-and-yellow-striped machine-woven scarf. "That's very thoughtful of you, Lance," he says, "but I don't need it if I'm wearing a spacesuit."

"Then I'll take it," Pidge offers, rubbing the fabric between two fingers. "It's nice and soft and it'll keep me warm on my way home from work."

"Really?" Lance crosses his arms, not a little irritated...and with his insides twisting and reminded of their _closeness_. "You're gonna give away _my_ thoughtful"—last-minute bargain at the airport—"Christmas present in _front_ of me?"

Keith stares between him and the scarf before sighing and flinging it around his neck, one end dangling to his navel and the other caught in his ear. "Happy?"

And he looks so ridiculous that a laugh bursts from him. So what if Keith kissed Pidge first? It was just _mistletoe_ , for quiznak’s sake! (Even if there was a little tongue involved…)

So it’s not a lie when Lance says, "Ecstatic.” He zips his duffel bag back up and announces, "And Santa's sack is empty!"

"What about Pidge's gift?" Matt wonders with a raised eyebrow. "You got all your ex-teammates _except_ her, so—"

"He already gave me mine," Pidge says, her hand grasping something resting over the fabric of her sweater with a soft smile on her face.

Lance's heart performs a complicated series of gymnastics at the sight, at the realization she must've slipped the necklace on right after he gave it to her.

"Oh, really?" Matt smirks. "And without anyone else around?"

Pidge's face reddens, a glare shot Matt's direction, but before she can retort - and Lance can react to the implication in his words - Sam bustles into the living room and announces dinner.

Everyone files out excitedly, even Krolia describing her favorite Christmas dish - apparently she spent one with Keith's dad and misses it - to Romelle, but before Lance follows small, warm fingers close around his wrist and tug him back.

"Wait," Pidge says, sounding oddly shy as she meets his eyes. She pushes something into his hands. "I had something for you too; I...worked on it for a while so when I thought you weren't coming I worried I wouldn't be able to give it to you _but_ here it is!" She laughs, awkwardly gripping her elbow, and adds, "I hope you like it."

His heart skips a beat as he looks from her hopeful expression to the gift - a leather-bound photo album - in his hands, and he holds his breath while he flips to the first page.

He doesn't know which emotion hits him at the sight of the first picture, of his own more youthful face grinning at the camera, of Hunk's almost indulgent smile and Pidge's - unevenly cut hair brushing her neck and a glare shining on her glasses - irritated scowl. His fingers poke out from behind her head, and the three of them are wearing the Garrison cadet uniforms.

The photos progress from their Garrison training days - Pidge a rare and reluctant presence - to their time in space. And by the time he finds a picture of him with a few Puigian girls, Lance realizes these are all photos _he_ took.

A lump sticks in his throat the further he gets into the album. He flips past pictures of Blade members long dead, of a ridiculously photogenic Prince Lotor, of Coalition members that screeched in horror the instant they realized someone was getting their faces on camera, of Keith scowling and Shiro talking and Hunk smiling and Pidge laughing.

Pictures of Allura, with the mice, with Coran, with the Blue Lion, with all of them.

Lance blinks a single tear out of his eye when he reaches the last photo, the very one he ruined just last night, of him and Allura on their first date.

"Lance?" Pidge prompts, frowning when he glances at her. "You...okay?"

"Yeah," Lance says, nodding, and he smiles when he realizes he isn't lying. He flips through all the empty pages in the album and says, "I'm just looking forward to adding more pictures."

The worry obvious in every furrow on her face eases, a laugh escaping her. "Oh, good, for a second I thought I screwed up with this."

"No, it's perfect, Pidge." He pulls her into a hug, holding her tightly against him, the scents of cinnamon and peppermint tickling his nose. "Thank you."

Pidge's arms wrap around his back, so much warmth in her embrace he forgets everything he saw of his own misery the night before, remembering that he wasn’t there to comfort her when she needed it. The future isn't written in stone, and even if it is, he would gladly take a chisel and reshape it.

He’ll do everything in his power to make her future a happy one, one where Pidge is loved the way she should be.

She pulls back first but doesn't quite step away, leaving them near enough he can see every sliver of brown in her eyes. She laughs and reaches up to flick the white ball at the end of his Santa hat out of her face.

Lance wants to kiss her till they're both breathless and their hearts pound in time - and without the excuse of mistletoe. But—

"You guys hungry or what?"

His eyes widen and Pidge’s cheeks fill with color - he doubts he looks much better - as she steps away from him and he spins around to see Colleen standing in the doorway with her arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

“Yes!” Lance says, wincing at the crack in his voice. He rubs his stomach and reassures her, “I’m starving!”

“Then come on, before it’s all gone.” Colleen beckons for them to follow.

Pidge laughs as she precedes Lance out of the living room - but not without flashing him a smirk that warms him to the core.

“Well,” he muses with a smile of his own, “there’s always New Year’s Eve.”

Pidge’s brow furrows in confusion. “For dinner?”

“No, for…” Lance, growing warmer with every second she stares at him, waves a dismissive hand. “For spending time with friends and stuff.”

Pidge doesn’t look convinced, but she rolls her eyes and says, “Just don’t be a stranger and we won’t have a problem.”

For Christmas dinner Lance ends up squeezed between Pidge and Hunk. Hunk doles out servings of turkey and potatoes and salad to him before he can ask, and Pidge shoots him the occasional bewildered smile as if she still can’t believe he’s there. Her foot brushes his under the table, making him flinch more than once, but he finds himself leaning closer to her with or without the excuse of reaching for another buttered roll.

“If only Princess Allura was with us too,” Romelle says, her eyes drawing down and fixing morosely on her turkey leg. “Strange as it is, I think she’d like Chrastmas on Earth.”

“It’s Christmas,” Hunk corrects.

“Quizzak,” Romelle curses with a sheepish smile. “Sorry; I know what this holiday means to you all.”

Krolia sighs, her own gaze downcast, until Keith nudges her in the arm and offers her a smile.

Lance can feel the strength of all their eyes turning to him, but he grins and says, “Oh, I’m sure Allura would be charmed by it, but she would’ve hated the hat.”

“Princess Allura never did much like headwear,” Coran muses, his eyes crossing in an attempt to keep his Santa hat in sight. “It was always just the tiara with her. Or even a helmet!” He wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. “Did I ever tell you all about the time she stole Zarkon’s helmet?”

And, without waiting for a reply aside from a few giggles and incredulous stares, Coran launches into what’s sure to be a long-winded story.

Lance laughs at all the right moments along with everyone else, grinning wider when his gaze drifts around the table. Hunk rolls his eyes at him, and Keith’s eyes glaze over while he devoutly picks at his food though he quirks a confused eyebrow when he catches his.

Pidge scoffs at a silly moment in the story before flashing him a warm smile that startles the butterflies in his stomach. He’s pleased how easy it is, that he doesn’t even have to feign amusement for Coran’s benefit. He’s not betraying Allura’s memory by finding new - and old - happiness, not when she sacrificed herself to give them all chances to live.

Maybe that’s why he turns to Sam towards the end of the meal and wonders, “So…are there any new missions going into space anytime soon?”

Sam laughs and asks, “You thinking of a career change?”

A hopeful smile pushes at his lips, sparked by the memory of the gut-wrenching, heart-pounding, and blood-rushing feeling of flight, and says, “Something like that.”

Pidge nudges him in the arm. “What about your poor juniberries?” she teases…though there’s an edge of trepidation in her tone.

Lance nudges her back and says, “The juniberries don’t need me anymore.”

Not like _they_ need him, and not like he needs all of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and then Lance finds a rare copy of _Killbot Phantasm 26_ to give to Pidge on her birthday
> 
> ...i swear we originally conceived of this as a crack fic


End file.
